Authors: Anita Nair
Ladies Coupe (20 page)
Akhila opened one of the cards. Hari’s signature was scrawled all over it. Hari and nothing else. Every year he sent her a card as if to remind her of his existence. But Akhila had never wanted to pursue that thought. What was over was over, she told herself.
In the last one was a phone number and an address. I don’t stay at home any more, he had written. Akhila had been tempted to call when the card arrived. But she had resisted. Her life had a pattern now and she wanted nothing to disrupt it. Five years was a long time. But the chasm that lay between them still couldn’t be bridged. Perhaps it would simply have widened.
Akhila began to tear the cards up. She would burn them, she decided. Then on a whim and because she couldn’t sever herself from him completely, she took out the small address book she had bought to write down the names and addresses of her colleagues at work and carefully wrote out Hari’s address and telephone number. That was his place in her life, she told herself. A name among several names. Suddenly Akhila thought of Sarasa Mami and Jaya.
Later that evening, she went to Sarasa Mami’s house. I should have done this a long time ago, she told herself as she walked down the street. I shouldn’t have abandoned Sarasa Mami and the children. Even though Amma would have been angry, I should have visited them, let them know that nothing had changed.
Outside Sarasa Mami’s house, she paused. The door that always had a line of plastic mango leaves crowning it was bare and shut. The white kolam painted on the doorstep had been erased. What had happened to Sarasa Mami? Had she completely abandoned her former life? Through one of the open windows, Akhila saw the bluish glare of a TV screen. She stared in surprise. Then she pressed the doorbell, yet another oddity in a doorway that had never had any such adornment, for it had always been kept open.
A stranger opened the door. ‘Yes?’ he asked.
Akhila suddenly felt sweat break out on her forehead. Was this one of Jaya’s men?
‘Sarasa Mami …’ she said. ‘Is Sarasa Mami here?’
The man looked at her for a moment as if trying to fathom who she was. Then he sighed. ‘There is no one called Sarasa Mami here. We moved to this house four years ago. It was empty for about six months before we shifted in. The owner couldn’t find a good tenant. And after we began living here, we found out why. I came here on a transfer and knew nothing about the history of this house.’
‘Do you know what happened to them?’ Akhila asked, not knowing what else to say.
The man shrugged. ‘No … someone told my wife that they were evicted and that they went away to …’ he paused, ‘Kodambakkam.’
Akhila bent her head, embarrassed. She realized what the meaning of the pause was. What do you have to do with a family that moved into an area famous for its whores? the pause demanded.
‘But how do you know them?’ the man asked, unable to hide his curiosity. You look too respectable to have had a connection with a family of ill repute, his expression said.
Akhila looked into his eyes, wondering what she should say. What would he think of her if she said that Sarasa Mami’s family and hers were almost like a family once. Then feeling defiant, she said, ‘They were family friends,’ but suddenly she lost her courage and added, ‘but we haven’t seen them for many years.’
‘That explains it. So you didn’t know what had happened to them. Or that the daughter had become a, you know …’ the man said, unable to mouth the word prostitute.
Akhila turned to go. Why did I wait so long? Why didn’t I have the courage until now? And yet if I had, what could I have done?
The night before Akhila left the house, she lay awake.
She was never going to come back here again. Was this how a bride felt on the eve of her marriage? Or a pregnant woman felt when the first wave of labour pains rocked her insides? Fear. Excitement. A manic swinging between a complete numbness of thought and an explosion of serrated nerve ends.
She was never going to come back here again. Was this how a bride felt on the eve of her marriage? Or a pregnant woman felt when the first wave of labour pains rocked her insides? Fear. Excitement. A manic swinging between a complete numbness of thought and an explosion of serrated nerve ends.
My life is going to change forever. My life will never be the same again – Akhila chanted this to herself as if it were a Devi mantra. To safeguard. To protect. To bless. To renew.
The flat was designed for a family. For a husband, wife and two children as per the government scheme of things.
Akhila thought of how hard the government tried to put a lid on the burgeoning population and began to giggle. First, there were the cute lines that encouraged family planning. From the back of trucks, around garbage bins and on top of bus shelters, a red inverted triangle with a single message beamed cheerily – We two, our two; small family, happy family. Then there was the matter of maternity leave. Women government employees could avail of maternity leave for only two pregnancies. Thereafter, the only leave they were eligible for was to have an MTP done. And now these flats. But at least it was saner than what they did some years ago: forcibly dragging men of all ages to family planning centres and performing vasectomies on them against their will. As reward or compensation for their inability to fill the world with more babies, they were given a plastic bucket and fifty rupees, she had heard.
The house had a main hall where a three-seater sofa, two armchairs and a low coffee table would fit in easily. And if one really wanted to, a small dining table could be squeezed in against the wall. It was a room where the family could spend time together, watch TV and entertain visitors. There were two rooms adjacent to each other that opened from the main hall. Two bedrooms with open cupboards and enormous windows. The kitchen, long and narrow, ran the
full width of the house and was behind the main hall. There was a veranda, partly enclosed by grills, at the back of the flat and on one side of it were the bathroom and the toilet. A small patch of land surrounded three sides of the flat. The fourth side was taken up by a replica of this flat. Like Siamese twins joined at the hip, the inner wall that ran the length of the house linked the twin flats. Above were two identical flats but as they had no garden, it was understood that the terrace was theirs.
full width of the house and was behind the main hall. There was a veranda, partly enclosed by grills, at the back of the flat and on one side of it were the bathroom and the toilet. A small patch of land surrounded three sides of the flat. The fourth side was taken up by a replica of this flat. Like Siamese twins joined at the hip, the inner wall that ran the length of the house linked the twin flats. Above were two identical flats but as they had no garden, it was understood that the terrace was theirs.
Maybe it made economic sense to build a block of flats. Or, maybe the government thought that to give a not-so-senior employee a separate house would encourage him or her to think beyond their station in life. Or, maybe they thought it fostered national integration to share a wall and cooking smells.
Akhila didn’t care one way or the other. She was delighted by the sheer prospect of having a home to herself. She thought of how her life was finally beginning to acquire a dimension of its own. Then she heard Padma say, ‘It’s a little old-fashioned. And quite plain. Did you see the kitchen? I didn’t expect a stainless steel sink but I thought it would at least be tiled. And the counters are plain cement slabs … not even mosaic.’
Akhila was silent. No matter what Padma said, Akhila loved her little quarters. Then Padma added, ‘But it has a certain charm. And it is just perfect for us.’
What ‘us’? Akhila wanted to demand. Isn’t it time you left me alone to live my life?
‘I can see we will be very happy here. I can walk the girls to school and back. The shops are just around the corner and the neighbours seem very nice.’
Akhila looked at her aghast. She had imagined Padma would be happy to have her home back. Akhila had been living with her for the past nine months till her quarters were sanctioned, and it hadn’t been an easy time. Often Akhila had to remind herself that this woman who gnawed at her nerves like a relentless mouse was her sister. Her own
flesh and blood. So she had to forgive Padma for becoming the overbearing callous creature that wifedom and motherhood had turned her into. And now here she was proposing to come and live with her.
flesh and blood. So she had to forgive Padma for becoming the overbearing callous creature that wifedom and motherhood had turned her into. And now here she was proposing to come and live with her.
Akhila thought of the toothpaste blobs and stray hair clinging to the wash basin in the bathroom, the grubby paw prints Padma’s daughter would speckle her immaculate white walls and magazines with, the toys that she almost always tripped over, the messing up of her neat bed, the borrowing of her saris with not even a may-I-please, the continuous blaring of the TV, the smells, the noise, the disorder, the interference … and stifled the sob that clawed at her throat.
‘Will Murthy like it? He will probably be offended by the very thought of living under my roof,’ Akhila said, trying to control the panic in her voice. Murthy, Padma’s husband, didn’t have a single self-respecting bone in his body. But Akhila was desperate enough to clutch at any straw she could find.
‘Oh, he won’t mind at all. Once he is promoted, he will need to travel all over the south. One day in Madras. Two days later in Hyderabad. The next week in Hubli … and I don’t like the thought of being alone with the girls. And why should we run two households when we can be together? Besides, how can you live all by yourself? Padma said firmly and Akhila could see her already planning where to put what and choosing the material for the curtains.
‘But … ’ Akhila began. And then Padma brought out the trump card that she knew would sweep all her objections away, ‘I don’t think I can cope alone, Akka.’
Akhila wished she had spoken then. Akhila wished she had admitted to herself this overwhelming desire and told Padma how much she preferred to be on her own. Instead, she retreated into silence.
An uneasy silence that often splintered, flinging slivers of glass all around. Cutting skin and drawing blood. Akhila almost always regretted the outburst afterwards. For she was
to blame as much as Padma. She should have had the courage to speak up. Instead Akhila had allowed Padma to coax her into sharing her home with her. And let the churning ooze of regret suck at her feet with little suckling sounds: it would have been different if she were living alone. None of this need ever have happened.
to blame as much as Padma. She should have had the courage to speak up. Instead Akhila had allowed Padma to coax her into sharing her home with her. And let the churning ooze of regret suck at her feet with little suckling sounds: it would have been different if she were living alone. None of this need ever have happened.
Then came the matter of the egg. Perhaps that’s when Padma began choosing the silken threads with which to embroider Akhila’s reputation.
For nine months, Akhila had had to forgo the pleasure of an egg. After all, she had been living in Padma’s house and she had no wish to take any liberties that would upset her. But now that she lived in what were her entitled living quarters, she decided to resurrect her everyday egg.
‘What on earth is this doing here?’ Padma’s voice swirled round Akhila in waves of incredulity when she saw her bring out Katherine’s egg case.
‘What does it look like to you?’ Akhila murmured, unable to keep the bite out of her words.
‘I know what it is. I asked what an egg case is doing in this house, a brahmin household?’ Padma retorted.
‘Well, in this brahmin household, someone eats eggs.’
‘Who?’ Padma asked and then suddenly her jaw dropped. ‘Are you telling me that you eat eggs?’
Akhila ignored her.
‘How can you? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ she began, stung by Akhila’s silence.
‘What do I have to be ashamed of? It’s just an egg after all.’
‘How can you?’ Padma persisted. ‘We are brahmins. We are not supposed to. It is against the norms of our caste.’
‘What about the time the doctor said your children’s health needed building up and you fed them an egg beaten with milk? Weren’t you committing sacrilege then?’ Akhila said, allowing herself to be drawn into an argument.
‘That was for health reasons. But you eat eggs because
you like the taste. Have you thought of what Amma would have said if she knew?’
you like the taste. Have you thought of what Amma would have said if she knew?’
‘Amma knew. And she didn’t say anything.’
‘Poor Amma. How she must have hated it. But she must have been too scared of your razor-edged tongue to try and stop you.’ Padma’s words tore through Akhila. Was that why Amma had never said a word? Had my mother come to fear me? Have I turned into some stone-faced scythe-tongued monster?
Akhila turned towards Padma blindly. Look at me, she wanted to cry. I’m your older sister. The one who gave up her life for you and for our family. Do you realize what you are saying? I thought it was your love for me that made you treat me with such esteem. Are you telling me it was just terror?
But all Akhila saw there was the gleam of victory. Padma knew that she had hurt her in the worst way possible. Akhila felt a great anger cloud her eyes and she snapped, ‘This is my house and if I wish to eat eggs here or prance around naked, I will do so. If someone doesn’t care for it, they are free to leave.’
Akhila heard Padma gasp and she knew that this time she had scored a point.
For the next four years, Akhila managed to barely survive many such skirmishes. Padma made friends with the women in the neighbourhood. Most of them, like her, were housewives and they often met in each other’s homes. One of the first things that Padma did was to tell the other women what a misfit Akhila was as a woman. Her next-door neighbour Mr Dharmappa’s wife was a broad-faced beaming woman who took special pride in telling the whole world that her husband, who was extremely efficient at work, was no better than a baby on its back when he got home, and just about as useless. ‘He can’t even make himself a cup of tea,’ she announced and then added, ‘I have to take care of every single thing. If I were to place the
dishes on the dining table, he wouldn’t serve himself. I have to do even that for him.’
dishes on the dining table, he wouldn’t serve himself. I have to do even that for him.’
Padma made a sound to pronounce agreement. Akhila was in her bedroom eavesdropping. She waited in amusement to hear what Padma would offer in turn about Murthy’s misdemeanours. And Akhila heard her say, ‘Akka is just the same. She is so smart when it comes to office duties, but at home …’ she paused. ‘Why, my seven-year-old Madhavi is a better housekeeper than she is. I have to do everything for my sister. Cook for her. Iron her clothes, even sew the missing buttons on her blouses!’
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